From The Ashes
by Warg
Summary: Kyoto 1866, city of Demons. No more. The passage of a decade, birth of Meiji peace. But fires rage and a countdown begins. A tale from the ashes..
1. Demon

To all the readers, this being my first fic, I realize that I need a lot of weathering to make my work acceptable. So I'd welcome everything from flames to threats to truthful comments as long as they are in reviews.

The time span is between the Kyoto Arc and the Jinchuu, for all extensive purposes Ep-65 onwards doesn't exist.

Disclaimer: Yes, I don't own Rk, wat you gonna do abt it?

Chapter 1: **Demon**

Kyoto: 1866**. Just after sundown**

Kyoto, demon city Kyoto. Where the sun's last rays would only shine on empty rooftops and blanched streets. As the shadows lengthened, light all but disappeared; the city's bestial protectors were loosened and the streets were taken by silent wolves. No man dared stand in their path. With bolted doors and shuttered windows they prayed to the darkness to be excluded from the grisly hunt. For the shadows held a predator that the wolves hunted in earnest, a demon and his bloody blade.

The moon was late in its ascent, and the shadows only deepened—the demon needed no further encouragement.

A few minutes trickled by, the first silvery rays of a full moon illuminated the dull white streets, one stained with crimson, reflecting the soaked blue haoris of an unfortunate pack that would never again howl at the moon.

Kyoto: 1879. **Just before sundown**

Shinomori calmly gazed over Kyoto. From his vantage at the balcony of the new Aoiya, he could see over countless rooftops and numerous streets in the dimming light. He caught onto a merchant not far away, visibly pleased with his day's work, displaying his knick-knacks mechanically to the people he passed by, as he was overtaken by a small child, excitedly pulling his mother onwards through the busy streets. The young woman, flushed with the exertion of keeping up, sent an apologetic smile towards the merchant, who nodded with a placating smile. The sun, a deep clotted orange, finally dipped beneath the mountains that bordered Kyoto, drawing out his age lines into sharp relief.

Aoshi quickly adjusted to the transient darkness, eyes unfocusing suddenly as he knit his brows—in the split second that followed there remained no trace of the tall, upright man or his long, flowing trench coat. A pale streak skimmed over the rooftops, towards the disturbance near the city center. Something had disrupted the Meiji peace.

The moon, bright and full, was outdone by the hundreds of lanterns that hung upon grapevines above the streets of the commercial district. Business people and consumers alike were massing around the embers of a large fire. The remnants of two very successful establishments lay charred as what appeared to be half of the Kyoto police force and some of the braver civilians put out the last of the fire. The tendrils of smoke that rose from the streets were offset with the horrified cries of the people who were by now attempting a rescue from the debris.

One long assessing glance at the collapsed beam and the charred foundations told the ninja it was useless: only a Demon could survive these flames. Warped cries sent ripples through the crowd, in sync with his thoughts, a new word, it spread across the crowds faster than the fire before had—Demon .

Treading the black liquid filth that was bogging the streets, Aoshi made his way slowly back towards the Aoiya. There was much to think about.

Suddenly, he stopped, as storm gray orbs snapped up to meet amber. Saito.

A small back step and a slight poising of the right arms followed as ex-Okashira took in the ex-Shinsengumi, with his arm hovering the spot upon the coat under which a kodachi rested. Aoshi sized up the man in blue. He noticed the slight sneer that passed Saito's lips before they curled into a benign and disturbing grin. The lids closed upon his Amber eyes as he touched his cap in salute and walked towards the late fire.

Forcing down baser instincts, Aoshi continued towards the Aoiya. He had not liked the wolf's fake smile or calculating brush of his katana.

It was a blessing that Misao was off to Tokyo, on a visit to her Kaoru-San and Himura, he had much to think of tonight.

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On the other, shabbier side of Kyoto, a tall man with brightly colored clothing and flaxen, gravity-defying hair made his way into an inn. He had been staying here the past few days, but passing the archway never got any different. Owing perhaps to the compendium of blades all over him, he drew a few gasps from the crowd at the entrance hall, followed by silence as he passed onto the dark hallway beyond it. His room was at the end of this hallway, where few sounds reached to disturb him.

Chou had been the perfect undercover agent, blending into his cover by blatantly standing out. He had had a limited degree of success and was finally putting his bloody past in the shadows.

He entered his dark room, where a lone candle was burning out on the small, low table, barely illuminating the liquid wax beneath the wick. Pulling the shoji shut, he picked up the last remnants of the candle and moved towards the lamp. The light lingered over his neatly folded futon, which he had bundled aside in the morning, his baggage and a large, pale and bulbous pate, set with heavy lids and sharp catlike whiskers, on the wall behind where Chou stood. The familiar chuckle that ensued sent shivers down the cop's back. He stood frozen. The last of the flames flickered and blew out.

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	2. Strong

Chapter 2: **Strong**

Village of Isshiotakebi: 1866. **Just after Sunrise.**

The crisp rays of the early sun enlivened Isshiotakebi. The little village was set with massive evergreens that shaded the quiet stone-studded pathways and trim little houses. A stream curled, swift and musical, through the rural center point, dividing Isshiotakebi in two.

The wind whispered with a cool, chilly edge through the dappled, rusting leaves of the aged trees. A small boy made his way beneath them.

With sure steps and a bokken that hung lazily off his shoulder, Shishirou strode on in the semi-darkness. His keen ears trained to the stream that gurgled beside him. The loose breeze ruffled his already ruffled ponytail which reached his broadening shoulders.

His face, sharp and angular, was beaded with sweat, the visible product of his determined self-training. He worked on his kata for hours every night, becoming one with his weapon as he zoomed through the darkness. Shirou wanted strength; he needed to be strong, strong like his father. Many of the village's men were gone to Kyoto to support the clans that would soon bring about the new Japan. A glint invaded the boy's red-brown eyes. He would join his father soon, he would fight for Japan, for his village, and its people, his mother, and his father.

In the darkness, Shishirou had come to love the stream that cracked the beautiful moon it its little eddies, the wind that gave speech to the leaves and whisked his hair, the trees that creaked, and the leaves in them that whispered. They helped him on his quest, assuring him that one day he would see his father again, in a better world.

Kyoto: 1879. **Just Before Sunrise.**

The Moon had already been gone for a few minutes, conceding a transient defeat behind the light, white billowy clouds. The Sun, however, was nowhere in sight. The Aoiya was silent as all its inhabitants, newly stirring or newly snoozing, maintained a dead silence. The fire in the kitchen slowly struggled, fought, and finally won over the dry wood. A slightly sleepy—tight-lipped, and tired-eyed—yet picturesque face lit up from the flames as a large pot was filled with water and placed in its place. Omasu moved through the kitchen with practiced silence and a natural grace. Her yukata swept along the floor, a chore she remembered was Okon's for the day. She vaguely wondered how Misao, her Okashira, was doing. A tinge of sisterly concern shot down her spine, as Misao's genki image instantly brought the image of storm gray eyes, an intense countenance and an ensuing silence.

Omasu shut her eyes. Aoshi was no longer the same. He was not the youth who had out-skilled and out-matched their late, great Okashira, the boy Omasu had often hero-worshipped and sometimes even fantasized. Neither was he the monster that had butchered the only father figure she had ever had, the lunatic who had deserted their ancient order and committed the ultimate treason and betrayal. Bringing tears and nightmares to her precious Misao and the rest of the Oniwaban. He had returned to them a battered mess—a broken leg, sprained wrist, and cracked ribs. But he was changed anew, his Ki pure, his gaze level, his eyes, so unfathomable, so deep, once more devoted and understanding. She loved him now, she realized, a brother, a constant source of hope, of happiness and of maybe one smile that Misao would someday draw from this great man.

And while the conscious mused, the sleeping slept on. Aoshi had meditated away the hours of the night. A brush, glistening with ink, at his side, a detailed map of Kyoto spread on the tatami ahead of him. The map was stained with nine distinct black marks. The latest, now dry, was on the shopping district, with the small number two inscribed beside the dot. He turned things he had heard at the arson scene over in his head. The last month had seen nine major infernos that had unsettled the masses of Kyoto. The descending magnitude of the fires had had struck a strange chord in Aoshi's mind. He knew well that the police had as yet no idea of the identity of the perpetrator. No motive, no suspects, no devices, nothing. Only raging fires than had gone from ten large inns in the entertainment district, to nine successful restaurants and food stalls, to eight well to do shops, seven clinics and apothecaries, six shrines, dojos, homes, schools, always one less structure claimed. Less damage, less disturbance, less intensity, almost a countdown of sorts. But that did not make the blazing days any less terrifying to the people of Kyoto, attempting to cope with this elemental threat, while striving to find someone to blame. All the while the police had never caught anyone suspicious, and the more superstitious hoped that this had been some passing tribute, and the demons of fire would be appeased after that one final conflagration.

Aoshi realized that the matter would not be self-absolving, much less self-healing. Kyoto had been aflame for a month now and even the incompetent government realized the threat. Aoshi's thoughts flickered to Saito. The man had earned Aoshi's respect when they had first met at Mt. Heil. To think that the wolf walked the streets in such deceptive guise affected the ninja.

Aoshi finally drifted off to a dreamless slumber, and as his lids shut out the light from the depths of his mind, the sun's first rays crept into the upper hallways of the Aoiya and through the shoji of his silent chamber.

By now the sun had alighted the streets of Kyoto, and many a winding road, short alley, and stony bridge away stood the illuminated Kyoto Central Police Station. As the loose mist cleared around the green-swathed structure, the main door snapped shut. A man who looked akin to a panda on hind legs, dressed in the police garb of a high officer, made his way through the silent and blissfully empty entranceway.

His mind raced as his face, beaded with sweat, was wiped with his gloved palm. The red faced police officer made it to his office, glad that for once he was first in office, a feat that had always eluded him in his lengthy career. He wondered if he should still check to make sure that Fujita Gorou had not entered his office, but remembered the congratulations he had received from the sentry at the gates.

No one had entered the station after sunrise, but a lupine shadow of a forgotten past had had remained from the night now past. The insides of the wolf's den were shrouded in thickened nicotine vapors. Amber eyes only slightly bloodshot shimmered in the haze. The thick curtains allowed in little light. He was used to sleepless nights, to stupid subordinates who were lazy on jobs of importance and others that pried in places where they didn't belong. Musingly, he considered using Chou to sweep up the accumulate ashes in his otherwise neat office.

He wondered why he had sent the ahou in, in the first place. But his conquest of Mt. Heil had ascended Saito to the summit of underworld legends. His face, eyes, posture and even his cigarettes would be dead giveaways. In short he was unfit to be undercover in Kyoto. For now he would wait, and force out a full report from the fool under threat of torture for his tardy report.

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In an upper room of an inn, in the less inhabited, woodier edge of Kyoto, the sun's fast-aging rays were lighting up a mass of stiff blonde hair. The futon covered the sleeper's face from the radiance, but his subconscious screamed him into the world of the living.

Owing to years of experience, he beat down the urge to sit up, to shout, to panic as his eyes adjusted to the light. His face hidden beneath the mattress, Chou began counting off one, two, three, five, six, eight, ten, eleven, thirteen, nineteen and twenty. Biting back his joy at being reacquainted to all his limbs and the appendages that they came with, he checked for bindings.

Unrestrained Chou sat up, sensing zero ki in the immediate vicinity. A quick look at the bare walls and slit-like window showed no usable articles in his plight and reduced escape routes to the shoji. Nipping up, he admired his speed and nimbleness and realized with horror that he had been stripped of his prize arsenal. Rage overcame reason, and a fuming sword hunter prepared to bash in the old freak's head when he faced him again. With a slight shiver he remembered the expressions in Saitsuchi's impish face in the dimming candlelight. He remembered the bony iron grip that had closed on his collarbone from behind as the old midget had let out a cackle and Chou had drifted off to the cold darkness.

_Well, the fools would have to pay and do so soon, and with interest. _

Stepping up to the shoji, he inched it open, a centimeter per second, avoiding the scathing scraping noise. He slipped into the brightly lit hallway and instantly fell back with an ungainly, hurried leap. He had been nose to nose with his ex-comrade, the round demon Iwanbou. Galvanizing his will, he stepped into a defensive stance, which would give him best visibility of the inch long claws encased in the pink flesh.

In the back of his head he remembered a joke he had made in what seemed another lifetime, with Kamatari, about Iwanbou not having enough brains in his melon shaped head to have an ounce of Ki, and cursed his luck at having found the statement true.

Both Juppongatana stood stock-still. In silence Chou shut an eye of his eyes and prepared to face the onslaught, and Iwanbou flashed on his deceptively stupid grin.

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A-notes: The promised re-work. Hope it pleases.


	3. Return

A special thanx goes to all my reviewers. An especially especial thanx goes to **OmasuOniwaban **for proofreading the previous chapter and giving me lifesaving aid on the current one. And to **Reignashi,** **JasmineReigner **and my dear **CharmedSword **for being kind enough to supply me with enough names to last a ………ahem this chapter. I mean to use as many as I can. Thanx.

Here goes…

Chapter-3: **Return**

Village of Isshiotakebi: 1868. **Noon.**

The stream that ran through the village, broadened downriver, branching into rivulets that encased sand-barge deltas a few kilometers away from the main village. Overlooking the delta ran the river Shitei. On one of the large delta's stood six youth's from Isshiotakebi, their faces hard, their eyes set.

The sun shone; clear and piercing, on the golden yellow soil as a myriad of refractions resulted from the crystalline water. The louder reverberations of the river drowned the stream here, as the water, fast and foaming, knifed at the sandy banks. The deltas were like patches of gold that the land gave as tribute to the water to appease its consuming waves. The light breeze here was unimpeded and carried the spray of the river.

The tallest of the boys, Mitsuru, well muscled and dark skinned, with a head of rich brown locks, drew his bokken level with his temple, moving to complete a circle, with four of the other boy. His younger brother, Imai, stepped into the prime kata, left foot tucked behind right, slightly bent, shinai held straight. They had lost a brother to the war, as their father fought on. The boys were proud and strong, but lacked the discipline of trained swordsmen. Opposite from Mitsuru were a pair of dark eyes, set in a tapered fair face. The lithe limbed boy, Ayasha was the fastest runner in the village. He had his bokken in a loose two-handed grasp. His hair set loose around his shoulder danced in the breeze. Standing parallel to Mitsuru and Ayasha were Yura and Hisashi, the former, the son of the village chief and the latter his closest friend. Yura had a formidable thrust attack while Hisashi could wrestle grown men to submission. They had been friends for long, and it showed in their near perfect team work in battle.

They encircled a youth between them, sharp faced with deep-set eyes. His strong chin and piercing eyes were mantled with messy dark bangs. He was Shishirou and it was time to prove himself strong.

There was no enmity, no hatred between the combatants, they were friends and neighbors, who shared the same fate, the same food and similar lives. These were children in times of war, thrust into early manhood, into responsibilities that were alien to their age. They had evolved out of fun and play, armored by the hard days and teary nights and thoughts of loved ones gone, perhaps never to return.

Yet Rou was different in it that he believed adamantly in hope, and looked forward everyday to join the war now nearing climactic pitch. He was also different in it that he had beaten each of these boys, separately, with varying margins, and had challenged them to this duel, to prove to himself, more than to anyone else that he was ready to join the ranks of the illustrious Ishin Shishi.

The sun shone directly overhead, and gave life to the soil at the boy's feet. Birds, gulls and cranes inhabited the far bank of the river and all eyes were trained to them. Everyday, at noon the gong would sound in their village to signal the passage of another day from their lives. It would sound any second, the birds would take instant flight, and so would the fighters.

With the first of the birds attempting to take to the air, wave upon wave of Ki swept around Rou. He would not be intimidated, looking past his bokken, he swept from Mitsuru to Yura, as time seemed to slow. He knew somehow, that Mitsuru would head the strike and instinctively brought his weapon up to defense, in a left-handed strike that would not hold out long against the textbook power strike. Rou's right hand shot forward and clasped his opponent's Gi. He followed it with a further easing of the weapon hand that directed Mitsuru's bokken harmlessly as the boy was left wide open, but this also meant that Rou's bokken was hindered and could not be brought forward in an effective strike. In the instant that followed Rou was airborne, pushing of the sandy ground and of an unbalanced Mitsuru, who fumbled back and almost fell before he caught sight of a tall shadow that barreling towards him. As Rou completed a tight somersault he realized that Mitsuru had been knocked down, accidentally by a charging Ayasha who had moved right after the first clash of blades. Rou had shifted his bokken to his left hand already, and now slid his left palm onto the back end of the bokken. A dull resounding crunch followed a scraping of sand, as Rou rolled past a stricken Imai, who had hesitantly approached the melee.

Rou was dimly aware of the collapsing Ayasha, and Mitsuru, ashamed and aghast, as he sized up Imai, who was no pushover. He felt Yura and Hisashi holding their distance, waiting, watching and willing on the young Imai. Rou decided to end it fast and angled his blade towards his right thigh. Sliding the length onto his obi, he took a deep breath and flexed the fingers on his right hand, as his left arm moved to balance the motion that would follow.

With a shrill war cry Imai ran forward, shinai raised, targeting a vertical course straight through Rou. In an instant, a wide diagonal slash swept through Imai, blasting through the boy in a scathing whistle, the air reverberated with the power of the self taught Battousjutsu, boy and blade went flying. By the time the Shinai sailed past his ears Yura had achieved momentum for his famous thrust and Hisashi was lumbering close behind. With a deft left handed motion, the shinai was snatched and drawn into a two sword stance, held parallel to the bokken as the left foot was bent low. Yura was closing in, already past the limp form of Imai, straight onto the twin blades of his opponent.

Yura's blade went zooming through the gap between his opponent's swords, but inches in, when the gi of his target were mere seconds away, Rou's bokken arched upward, catching the lower edge of his blade and driving it towards Rou's head. But before the detour target was reached, wood met fingers in a crunching thrust, and the power behind the strike was minimized. All the while, Rou's Shinai had been backhanded and was now perpendicular to his shoulder.

A single second later both Yura and Hisashi were sprawled on the ground. As Shishirou roved for a renewed assault, his eyes met Mitsuru's, drawn in a salutary glance, he bowed as did Mitsuru, the splintered hilt of the bamboo sword sunk into the soft sand, falling from his raw exerted palm. The wind whistled through them and Rou slowly eased his breathing.

Mitsura was awed by the final attack, he had seen Yura's thrust shifted from the chest onto the head, and considered his victory assured. Centimeters from Rou's nose, a whitish arc, had collided onto his hunched shoulder. But the arc, had only been impeded a fraction of a second, and then the shinai's tip, exploded straight into Hisashi's nose. Both boys had instantly passed into shock and crumpled together in a heap at Rou's feet.

Shishirou did not utter, a single expression of joy or elation though it bubbled in his chest, it was childish and there were wounded to tend to. Ayasha had begun to regain his footing. He looked up, onto the hand that Mitsuru offered him, his error had been forgiven, he relaxed, took the hand, and gingerly got up. The three boys converged beside Imai, as Mitsuru carefully tugged at his gi. There was an ugly indention in his chest, bordered by a throbbing black-brown tattoo that had taken the diagonal image of Rou's blade. A few controlled slaps to the face, some name calling and some childish retorts later, Imai was on his feet, supported by his elder brother. Together they walked to Hisashi who was sitting up, still dazed, his face a bloody mess. But a smile lingered in his eyes, and his lips slowly molded to match it. With a sickening crunch he repositioned his own nose and stood on shaky legs as the other boys reached him. He and Mitsuru stood up the senseless Yura and half dragged half carried him to the nearest channel of water. Everyone joined in and soon all the boys were sitting in the warm sun, slowly contemplating their action and the results. The bestial adrenaline seeped quietly as a feeling of rest and laziness took over. Everyone except Rou, were considering the best ways of concealing their bruises. In intimate mutual silence they were all warriors, they were men and they were very strong.

The boys noticed a dark streak was rushing through the opposite bank of Shitei. Yura recognized his father's prize mare, the one he remembered was stabled at the sentry ward at the northern edge of their territorial Chousuu border's. Before the implications of what the horse and his rider meant had sunk in, Yura felt a rush of wind beside him, and a soft spray of silvery sand hit his face. Shishirou had broken into an all out run, and was already vaulting past the first of the water ribbons that separated the Delta from the mainland, firing sprays of sand and surf in his wake.

With a small chuckle Yura eased onto his legs and the rest of the boys joined him, dusting of their hakamas, they made their way to the village, with light hearts and acing bodies.

The wind was shrill in Rou's ears, it pulled his hair out of the ponytail that had lasted the fight, in a passable imitation of the black horse that bore his dreams in a gallop to the chief's house. The gap between the boy and the beast closed as the ground transformed from golden to green, but the grass and leafy shoots were as ineffective at impeding him as the water and sand had been. He flew through the bank, now drawing parallel to the animal, drawing awed gazes from her rider.

The tall trees began to tower around the speeding blurs, as the land got elevated and rockier. The stream shrunk in diameter and slowed, the wind was cooler, and less resounding, but the racers sped on.

When the stream was no more than a gurgling brook, one could see a large house of stone. Set on a man-made mound, of rocks and rut, the house had the gravity befitting the residents. The large porch was set with bonsai creations that seemed magical miniatures of the gigantic counterparts all around them.

The Horse was still going strong, but the rider, Kensuke was worried that the boy would give in and collapse any second. He was glad that a crowd had collected in a cumulus formation, behind the two sprinters and would be there if he fell. In his hand was the reigns of the mare, in his heart were the reigns of joy. Victory.

In a minute or so the horse was halted near the mound of Chiharu the chief of Isshiotakebi. Kensuke jumped of his horse and with a rounding gesture of his hands and a small bow to the hurtling Rou, made his way quickly onto the house.

The boy had jumped across the stream a short way ahead, seeing the messenger's target, before it became visible. His heart raced faster than it ever had, as his body flung away all limits. His breathing was oddly strained, as the race had taken an impossible amount of energy. He almost collided with the shining raven creature, only slightly lathered after his run, and with a drumming heart and pounding breaths he moved up the steps of the mound.

Shishirou stood on the top step, his head inches from the heavy oaken door, as he willed his ear-drum to stop its drumming, his muscles to stop screaming, his heart to stop palpitating. He felt the piercing gazes of over half the village on him, and was puzzled, till he realized that they looked straight through him, through the archway, through the entrance halls, and straight into the Chiharu's chamber, where the messenger stood, and bowed respectfully, presented the sealed letter, and retreated with reverent steps.

A thrill went through the village as everyone felt the oncoming rush of a grand victory. Gongs sounded in peals of triumph, one of the frontier battles had been won. The Ishin's had claimed the eastern borders of Kyoto, and many of their boys, men from the village of Isshiotakebi, had shown exceptional valor. They would return, war-wary and slightly worse for wear, but joyfully in the days to come. There were dead, among the numbers, but for the people here, that was a simple part of life, something they humbly accepted as everyone's final fate. The celebrations would begin tonight.

The last of the twenty-one gongs dissipated with the last rays of the sun. For an instant the distant mountain line was crowned crimson, and then there was the darkness of the night.

The villagers, who had scurried all day, across the suddenly bustling pathways, were now retiring to their homes. Everyone would be out tonight to celebrate the return of the proud warriors of Isshiotakebi. It was time to freshen up, to offer devout acknowledgement to the merciful Kami, to look forward to the joy filled night, and the much-anticipated dawn.

A ring of shaded lanterns had been set high in the trees in a radiant perimeter around the chief's home. A wooden stage had been put together draped with rich red cloth, bordered by burning torches. Stalls, roughly readied were filling with food from the houses of the village. Toys and trifles were being brought into others. Overhead, a canopy of colored ribbons framed the starry sky.

Most of the village was knelt in prayer. Their calls had been answered. Aya knelt at the shrine, tears welling up in her eyes. But at the approach of her son, she shut her eyes and drove them in. Shishirou shakily walked to his mother, body burning, lungs screaming, face flushed, eyes focused, expression calm, hands steady but knees buckling. He almost collapsed into her, before she stood up and locked him in a loving embrace. They were wracked with silent sobs, though not a single tear fell.

In the darkness, and the fast dissipating silence, they offered a last prayer and began to prepare for the festivities of the night. The clouds moved around, light white in the night sky, as a low breeze picked up. The leaves whispered, and the branches creaked, soon to be drowned by the singers in the Kabuki stage. The singing, paired with joyous shrieks of kids, delighted by some delicate treat, or new toy, with cheers and applause and finally the deep monotone of Chiharu's speech reigned over the usual silence.

The sun rose high in the sky the next day before the usual streamers of smoke spiraled up in attempts to meet it. People usually up and about by then were curled comfortably in their cozy futon's. One by one doors were eased open, and relaxed happy faces emerged from the half open houses.

Aya sat in front of her mirror, intentionally, for the first time in months, taking care of her raven tresses. She had been pleased this morning, to find that she had risen before her son, to see his slow silent snores, content under the coverings. She had missed seeing her child, the one she had raised and cared for, loved, cherished and protected. With a loose low hum, she moved into the small kitchen, and started tinkering with the steady flames. A smile played across her ruddy lips, as she hoped that Shishirou would once more react to his old favorite breakfast. Her eyes however where a little glassy, as they saw past the flames, in which she pictured a face, long drawn, and strong chinned, as burning rose-red focused eyes watched her lovingly through his raven bangs. His rich thick lips breathed familiar warmth that she would devotedly wait for, for the lengths of her life.

Shishirou struggled out of the depths of his futon, slightly sore, an alien smile playing across his lips. He was happy, to have woken to his favorite childhood tune, to have woken to the wonderful dreams that he had slept into, to have woken to a bright full sun and to the smells of some savory delights drifting from the kitchen.

A few minutes later, a well-fed and well-groomed Shishirou made his way into the village, a skip in his step and a twinkle in his eye.

Together with Ayasha, Mitsuru and Imai, Shishirou made his way to the wide expanses at the outskirts of the village. A rolling green stretch of grass that led onto the delta. As the boys joked about Rou's having a crush on Kensuke, they came in view of the far bank of the river. Choosing a mound where the trees still provided shade, while the stream issued soft refreshing sprays, the boys sat down, and glued their eyes onto the green horizon. Soft peals of youthful laughter merged into the steadily growing turmoil in the distributaries ahead.

As the hours of the day passed away, and the sun first grew then waned in the saxe blue cloud streaked sky. The older boys had taken to napping, when the more restless Imai shook them one by one back to conscious. His face was an ecstatic mask, as he bounced up and down on his soles. The boys instantly spotted the short procession on horseback in the far horizon. While Ayasha ran to the village, the other boys slowly made to the bridge that the warriors would soon have to cross.

But something nagged in the back of Rou's mind, troubling him as he matched steps with the two brothers, all faces taut with expectations and excitement.

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Kyoto 1877. **Noon**

The curtain of steam rising from the bowl of soup did little to hide the strain on the smile Kuro forced as he set the bowl on the counter in front of a customer; potentially, a patron and a nuisance. The young man frequented the Aoiya, almost everyday of the week, but the food was not what drew him there.

Today had been the tenth day that he had taken over 5 tries to order miso, all the while sprouting dull jokes and making spastic gestures head, as either of his hands tried furiously to detach the other. It had taken Kuro all his ninja skills to choke down the chortle that bubbled in him. He vaguely wondered if the boy had lost it to Omasu's lovely smile, or Okon's catchy eyes, or to some other more exclusive part of their anatomies. Today Kuro hand-delivered the order, hoping to intimidate the boy enough to help him move along.

Without looking behind Kuro sensed the death glare the boy sent his retreating back. A soft sigh escaped him as he reminisced his own tactful rejection. Entering the kitchen he caught a giggling Omasu, who did her best to stop it. Okon waltzed into the kitchen and meekly uttered "Miso again". The trio burst out laughing, as the dejected boy attempted to spear Kuro, in his bowl of soup.

The tall form of Shinomori Aoshi walked past the kitchen doorway, instantly silencing the laughter. Swathed in his trademark trench coat and armed with a tachi, or so it would seem, he drove through the eating area and into the streets of Kyoto.

"Well i'd better go tell Okina, Aoshi-sama is back at it again." mused Okon.

The others got back to work, artfully pursuing a semblance of normality with their patrons. The hush that had fallen was levitated by the lively nonchalance of Omasu and the assuring smiles from Kuro.

Aoshi made his way through the crowded streets, heading for the outer rim of Kyoto, where the woods merged into the city.

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The main door of the Kyoto Central Police Station was thrown open. Two officers stepped out with a man, the portrait of a panhandler, held between them. The cops dragged, pulled and shoved the bum and deposited him in the porch of a nearby inn, where he remained immobile, apparently unconscious. His western styled suit was an unrecognizable color, tinted rich with deep dirt stains and fluid discolorations. His pants were ripped near the knees, his left kneecap displaying the scar of a badly healed wound. The stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke emanated in a near visible nova. The shreds of a cap that adorned his head hid his eyes, shielding them from the glare of the bright mid-day sun.

After several minutes of stillness he reached out his grubby palms, searching for support. He tottered to his feet, fitfully and lethargically. Swearing richly, he staggered at an intermediate pace, heading for the ragged outer edges of Kyoto.

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

Chou sat at a small rectangular table. Little light entered through the dark drawn drapery. Opposite him sat Saitsuchi. Behind him stood Iwanbou. They were all unharmed, resultant of a fight not fought. Chou's pale face countered well with his hair, sweat streaked lips moved, silently repeating the answer that the cackling man in front of him had just delivered.

"He is back".

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

Hokkaido:

A young man passed through the near empty streets of Sapporo, a fledgling town near the great woods of western Hokkaido. His angular face, long drawn and hard set was studded with focused rust-brown eyes. His steps were strong and determined as he moved to the loggers' lodges at the end of the town. The Katana and Wakizashi that adorned his obi were not an alien sight in these parts.

He smiled serenely at a few children who passed by him, busy in an inane game. He turned down offers of a guide into the woods and an early lunch at an inn. Reaching the woods he broke into a faster walk, flitting through the light mist between the towering trees around him.

After an hour of steadily maintained speeds, in which time he passed many lumberjack groups, unnoticed by them, he came in view of his target.

The trees around here stood nearly five stories high, swathed in dull green leaves. With shorter shrubbery between them that dappled the forest floor with hues of rust red, dull yellow and green.

The earth suddenly reverberated, as a sharp crunch, wood against metal, rang through the forest. A towering tree shook as a flock of scared birds took flight. Fuji loosened the giant axe from the tree. It whistled in the air till it was brought overhead to once again bite down into the tree. The sun reflected brightly of the mass of his bleached mane. His titan sword was slung on his back as he efficiently unbalanced the tree. Chopping away near its base.

"_Why must WE watch this?"_

The young man dissolved the distance between him and the colossal woodman, in a god-like sprint. Slowing into a dignified walk, he approached.

Fuji lowered his Axe, sensing the approach of strong Ki. He spotted the young man walking towards. As rubicund eyes met rust colored ones, it was clear to Fuji that he did not intimidate the boy. His lips curved into a slight smile.

" _Because you love me, and you will share in all my glory"._

"Fuji", rang out a clear piercing call. "Do you answer to your late allegiance"?

"No" uttered Fuji, a slow drawl.

"_The flesh of the weak"_

" You were among the heralds of a new world, will you not return." A command, not a question.

"No" repeated Fuji.

"_Is food for the strong"._

"Then I have no choice but to eliminate you".

Fuji simply grunted. A cold light shone in his eyes, his smile widened. He set down his axe at the base of the unchopped tree and unstrung his goliath sickle blade.

The swordsmen took stance. Fuji balanced his blade parallel, above his head, in a right-handed grip. Shishirou eyed the tip high above him, right foot slightly ahead of left, set in a minute crouch, right hand set beside his katana.

The roar of the wind was lost in the leonine war cry as the colossal blade cut through the air.

"_And so it begins"_

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

**Author's Note:**

Gomen for the geographic and urban development inaccuracy related to Sapporo.

Gomen for ending this chapter in the same note as the last, it won't happen again(I hope)

The boys were only joking about Rou having a crush on Kensuke (messenger), the point was to try making them act like kids instead as opposed to the opening of the chapter.

If this isn't already apparent Rou is short for Shishirou (come on people).

I hope its clear who the speakers are in the _italics_.

I think its a safe to make dead people omniscient, don't u?

Tachi—Long sword, this one, a scabbard, the one from the post-lunatic pre-juppongattana Aoshi.

**P.S: **constructive criticism on the fight sequence will be very highly appreciated...well I please easy so any kind of review will be highly appreciated... hahha.

See Ya.


	4. The Son of Mugen Jin

I'm back. LOL. Well a fair warning first, this chapter contains lots of graphic violence and a character death. Plus my messy mutilated version of a character in angst.

Now i'd like to thank **Sueb262** for her Beta work on part of the chapter. And also everyone that pushed me to finish this chapter. Thanx for being pushy guys...lol.

Well happy reading...

Here goes...

Chapter-4: **The Son of Mugen Jin**

Kyoto. 1869. **Midnight**.

It is dark tonight. The moon is tired looking down on us, tonight and every night, the same, always.

_What have I done? _

Nothing! All these years of hard work, of crafting and creation. I gave soul to steel. Steel, cold, hard, hungry steel.

Over the years I lost my master, my land, my home, my forge, my love, my sanity, my will. I wandered the lone earth, searching for something, not knowing what?

When had I ended up in a Choushu camp, where the embers in my heart were stirred, refueled, and rekindled? I returned to my calling, to my fire; carving and shaping light, bright and deadly.

Why had I returned then? Had I not dodged countless ronins — desperate, deadly, crazed — and eluded the slavers and bandits, the mindless, soulless drones of violence all armed with the same steel.

"The same". No never the same, I had thought. Thought I knew.

_What have I done? _

Nothing, once more. Blade after blade, spewed from my loving forge. Spawned in hopes of a new and bright day, a safe and peaceful night.

They had been meant to create a new Japan. That was all I had needed then for my sanity and my son. "He would never have to live in fear!"

If the cost was a sea of blood, so be it. The new dawn would only be brighter, rid of those that didn't deserve to live.

We fought for an eternity, fought a maelstrom of death, destruction a crazed race to the end. And we won. Victory sweet victory.

_What have I done? _

It has been months since we had taken over and Meiji was in power. Months since words such as "equality" and "freedom" were shot out of drunken lips in crass festivals. Where was the peace, the prosperity? Where was the orderly brotherhood of the new era?

**What have I done?**

Arai Shakku walked away from the window in his workshop. The embers in his forge now lifeless ash.

He tiredly walked towards the courtyard of his home, the windless night only adding to his discomfort. He sensed a storm brewing in the heaven's that until recently had seemed so near his grasp.

The lawlessness of Kyoto had forced bolts and latches on all doors. The streets after dark now housed prowlers and drunken yakuza.

With a start the master smith realized that he missed the Shinsegumi. The Miburu had kept Kyoto clean of such scum, as they swiftly and efficiently dealt with crime. And raised their banner "makoto" in triumph.

No sooner had he reached the porch a series of impatient knocks sounded on the main door. But as they continued in crescendo he recognized the code played on them.

Shakku rushed to the door, his bemused eyes now drawn with concern as he fought with the locks. Seconds later the door was flung open and a tall man shrouded in a tattered cloak was ushered in. But before the gate could be locked again a small child entered.

Stunned the smith could only watch as the young boy smiled up at him and began to help closing the door for him. Shakku was almost surprised enough to forget the man he had accompanied, who having cast-off the rag began to stretch his limbs. As the smith rounded on the man, he could only gasp, a whispered query passed his lips, as the smell of charred meet met his nostrils.

"Shishio".

About a month ago Shakku had received a letter from the Shadow Hitokiri. The contents in it had made him retch in disgust. The imperialist dogs had betrayed one of their best men, one to whom his sword was dearer than his soul, and cast him into the flames of hell.

He had returned, a demon, fuelled with hatred, which the master-smith shared. The result of such loathing lay atop a stand in the smithy, a sword that consumed flesh and grew strong as it claimed lives. The demon's soul, the embodiment of his will, Mugen Jin.

But the child had unsettled Shakku. The innocence in his face had reminded him of his son who even now slept, content in the depths of his warm futon. The poor child was thin and pale, and even in the darkness, mud stains on his threadbare hakama were clearly visible. The smith wondered who he was and why he was with Shishio.

The man he had seen on numerous occasions, for his love of swords had drawn him out of all shadows now seemed to surge with heat. He was wrapped from head to foot in white linen, a real contrast to his cloak. A polished saya glinted in his left hand, but there was no katana.

Shishio moved into the smithy in silence. His face was marked with a pained smile, his steps sure and determined. Almost like gravity the other two followed in.

Shakku rushed in and lit the lamp as Shishio and the boy entered the large workshop. The long drawn beams fell on unfinished blades that lined the lower shelves, covered in a thin layer of dust. But the tools, the many mallets, tongs, chisels and the anvil showed recent used. Shishio strode over to the forge and stood with his back turned to the two.

Shakku was growing increasingly uneasy around the child. His disarming smile had started to eat into the smith who had done his best to shield his son from the monsoon of blood and massacre that had engulfed them. All his life his swords were meant for protection, of his liege lord and loved ones, his country, his beliefs and his life. But he had finally succumbed to anger and consuming hatred. He had created a sword meant solely to destroy, a sword that could only kill. And in his moment of bestial revelation, this cherubic child had appeared hand in hand with a demon.

"Empty."

Shakku heard the whisper and realized that the Shadow Hitokiri had spoken, the open end of the saya thrust towards the smith.

"Soujiro, go wait outside." He droned.

"Hai, Shishio-san" the child chirped.

Automatically the smith moved to block his way. Moving to a high shelf, he retrieved a smooth wooden horse, hewn for his son, and held it out to the child. Soujiro peered dazedly at the offering. His eyes danced, as he looked first to Shishio who still stood by the furnace, head bent, shoulders drawn, then to the toy horse. With trembling fingers he reached slowly towards the miniature, his face an ecstatic mask. He looked once more at Shakku, at the many lines that creased his pre-maturely aged face and his strong yet hesitant eyes.

The next second he had scooped the toy and made a break for the outer courtyard, as the half bent man slowly eased back straight.

As the child disappeared, the smithy seemed smaller and darker. Shakku had broken into a sweat and had to ease loose his gi to breathe freely. He turned slowly and his eyes met fiery red orbs that burnt with hellish flames.

"Empty, empty, empty." Repeated Shishio louder each time.

"A saya without a sword, a samurai without a soul. They cast my soul into hell old friend. I have come here to reclaim it. Have you brought back my soul Shatku!" a steady growl.

The smith was transfixed, as the words rang in his head. Indeed he had brought back a burning piece of hell, hungry as a demon's soul.

"Where is my sword Shakku? Where is my soul?" a lower more menacing rumble.

Shishio had grown or the forge had shrunk, as the smith moved a short way to the stand upon which rested a katana in an ornate saya. He handed his dark masterpiece to the demon. As a strong hand grasped near the sageo of the blade, Shakku's almost recoiled at the sudden searing heat.

In a swift motion Shishio smashed the empty saya on the mantle over the forge, as the shards flew, the embers suddenly roared to life in the dormant pit. And the forge filled with a fiery radiance.

Outside, Soujiro was sitting quietly on the forge, his eyes glued to his hands, which delicately cupped the horse. His eyes were aglow as he envisioned some distant childish fantasy. But a single tear trickled onto his calloused raw palms.

He hurriedly hid the toy as the two men exited the house. Shishio made his sure way towards the main door as Shakku stood in the porch, a cloth covered bundle in his hands.

"Soujiro" he urged softly.

The boy looked up at the man and delivered another smile. His fingers nervously pawing his obi where the little horse rested. Fear struggled with the beaming smile in his face that he did his best to hide.

Shakku did his best to smile back, and thrust forward the little bundle towards the child. Once again, the boy glanced nervously at his master before moving to the gift. But as his outstretched fingers met with the cloth his face flickered from joy, to fear, to disappointment and returned to a cool amusement. Shatku unveiled his gift, uncertain, a wakizashi, his latest creation. But the boy returned another smile and refused to take the bare blade.

"It is for you Soujiro-chan" croaked out Shakku.

But the boy had taken to clawing his hakama and in another second produced a short sword from beneath his clothes. The saya was worn, yet well polished and cared for. His eyes shone with pride.

"Soujiro" drawled Shishio from the open doorway.

Soujiro returned Shakku's smile and flew to the door before Shakku had even drawn back his present. Lightning flashed in the far sky. And by the time the world was re-shrouded in darkness the nightly visitors were gone.

The master smith looked down at his hands. Realizing what he held, he stood stunned, horrified. He had just offered a child a weapon. And no normal weapon. This was meant to be the child of his demon sword. This was the son of Mugen Jin; bearer of the same fire, the hatred and the will to kill.

**What have I done?**

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Hokkaido. 1877. **Noon**

"_And so it begins"..._

The roar of the wind was lost in the leonine war cry as the colossal blade cut through the air.

The sun's rays illuminated the entire length of the edge as it cleaved through the air almost instantly and crashed into the ground. The rumble upon contact that ensued sent up a torrent of air.

As the rush settled into silence, Fuji breathed in, eased his grip on the sword, and upon raising it realized that his target had simply rolled aside and re-assumed his original stance.

The smile on Fuji's face widened as his eyes locked once again with his opponent's.

Fuji realized that he knew these eyes and the tongues of flame that licked within them. He had only seen such one's before, but they had gazed long and hard into his, and had scorched into his memory.

Rou had dodged the move with relative ease, had clearly seen the edge of the blade moving in a vertical sweep straight at him. The impact had left a small furrow, as patches of mud encased in grass had taken flight. A preemptive strike he realized. Already he had begun to plot the best route to the giant's vitals. But Fuji's height had Rou puzzled.

"Killing Ki! Finally a true fight," mused Fuji as he drew the concave side if the blade level with his chest. Then a massive step forward and a thrust.

As the blade cleaved down straight for Rou he jumped aside. But even before he had landed Fuji had shifted his grip on the blade and now swept it parallel to the ground towards Rou.

The rush of air whistling around the giant sword stopped as a resounding clang of metal against metal rang out. The side sweep was blocked as the swordsmen stood locked, their blades kissing.

But the trenches of soil beneath Rou's feet grew as he was inched back. And a second later the dead lock broke as Rou was flung back. He landed firm and skid to a halt, a smile tugging at his solemn lips. Return to stance.

Fuji leveled his blade parallel to his temple, another diagonal slash, another reverberation, another dodge and an empty contact.

By now both warriors were sporting small smiles, both playing on their strengths. As the sun grew hotter and their swords blazed with radiance, and faces sheened, sweat streaked, neither gained an advantage.

The glade was ribbed and scarred by trenches, some deep some shallow. Rou maneuvered through them avoiding and parrying as a volley of thrusts and slashes were rained on him. He had moved in a loose circle around the giant, scouting for openings or weaknesses. Finding none Rou's face took on a new determination as he changed stances and got ready to attack.

Fuji eyed his opponent, who had drawn his short sword from his obi and slid it back into the opposite end. With both hilts sticking out and either palm edged near them. Fuji extended his right arm and leveled the blade horizontally with his left. He stretched it for maximum distance and prepared for his strike.

Rou calmly allowed Fuji to begin, the attack, a powerful stroke in a sweeping arc, the tip edged towards the ground, the sickle blade moved with deceptive speed and almost reached Rou before he leapt back once again. It slashed right through a tree with a sickening crunch and continued in its radial path.

Rou had leapt far enough to let the blade pass then jumped onto the tree trunk. He dug his katana into the base and vaulted midway to the top. As the tree began to reel, and the wood near the bottom crunched, the leaves heaved and the branches swayed, Rou blasted up the bark with gunfire like reports.

Rou was nearly at the top of the tree. Around him a deceptive blur of green seemed to breathe and whisper, as shafts of light cast dappled streaks and shadows in his path. Wood and bark chipped underfoot, the tree seemed to lurch in pain beneath him, as the branches groaned and the leaves sighed. But the wind whistling in his ears made them distant, as he muttered a silent "I'm sorry, it has to be done".

The bangs stopped for a moment before the tip of the tree exploded in a green cumulus of branches and leaves as Makoto Shishirou shot through the air in a deadline for Fuji's throat, arms tucked to the sides, each palm on the hilts of the sword on the opposite hip, hair aflare, eyes on fire. And then his rust red orbs flew wide with shock.

Fuji had assessed that Rou would go on the offensive, and had continued his sweeping slash, rounding it behind his back and finally shifted hands, all the while forcing the blade faster. Now with the centrifugal force behind it, the massive sickle sword was ripping through the air, baking it in its wake, as ripples of scorched air furled and billowed around its edge. And sunlight was twisted and warped in a radiant blur, as the blinding arc closed in on Rou.

A fraction of a second before contact, a stab of light, like white fire, erupted where the airborne swordsmen had been, Fuji's eyes flickered shut, and he felt a weight collide onto his neck and knew he would never again see another sunrise.

Pain such as he never knew could exist seared into his skin, burning and slashing open his throat. He opened his eyes wide, as arms flailed wildly for support. Fuji knew he was falling, but could not hear the rush of wind, or feel the impact with the ground. A dull throbbing pain had built in his head, as scratching, thrashing sound rasped in his throat. His ears buzzed, as if furious, nearly exploding out of his head. His eyelids had drawn wide open, but his red orbs had slid up and into their sockets. His gigantic right palm calloused and burnt, left his severed throat and grappled with the earth, trying desperately to hold on, as the left palm fought furiously to gather air. He could not see, he could not hear, he could not speak. Fuji could not breathe.

The moment the scythe blade had come onto range Rou had loosened both his swords and exploded in a mighty double bathou-jutsu, the blade of the katana ran the entire length of the wakizashi, igniting the demon flare, a blinding fire-blast that heated the surrounding ear to an explosive degree, that thrust Rou straight towards his target. Oblivious to the thunderous eruption, the charring heat, and the tremendous force that rocketed him, Rou had speared shoulder first into the giant's neck and in one swift motion severed the front of his windpipe. As Fuji sword had been ripped away by the force of the explosion.

Aghast, Rou watched as Fuji's all too human face contorted and convulsed as an initial jet of rich red blood jetted through the gaping wound. His wakizashi burnt strong and fiery in his right arm as he fell alongside the felled, away from the soaring heights, down to the pitiful earth, scarred and battered and finally bloodied.

Rou's eyes hardened as his opponent feverishly fought for a single, precious gulp of air. The horrors of asphyxiation, which no man deserved. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a demonic voice whispered of the cost of treachery and betrayal, of the pits of hell where all such men would burn. But the long rattling sigh, followed by the guttural screech drove Rou to end the man's agony. As white hot metal bit into the open flesh of Fuji's chest, his palms first fisted, then relaxed as if resigned to their fate. A final attempt to exhale left a rivulet of blood and spittle trailing down his open mouth. And then it was over.

As the crimson flood steeped the battered glade, Rou stood feet away from Fuji. His eyes to the heaven, hard set, but a single tear had furrowed a clear path down his blackened face. He lifted the short sword above his head first in salute to his parents who in his mind were heaven bound and then to his enemy, who had the heart of a true warrior.

Rou whipped the blade in the air with blinding speed till flames leapt from its entire length and then moved in a circle around the fallen. Engulfing the dead in a ring of fire.

Fuji's giant blade, firmly embedded in a tree trunk high above the gorund, reflected the red orange blaze, as it spread from tree to tree, branch to branch, leaf to leaf. Rou had stood beneath it a moment, as its master burned, before walking away from the inferno as it grew to consume more and more.

He had whispered words that were lost in the crackling, snapping flames. On the far edge of the forest, bordered by a dirt road stood a large black hunter, tethered and watered, spoiling for a ride. Before long Shishirou was a speck in the road, upon his stallion, that led back to the demon city of Kyoto.

The smoke that darkened the bright sky sent warnings rippling through the town of Sapporo, but the fire had grown unstoppable. The bells tolled and the sleepy town buzzed with fear and excitement.

As men and women rushed with buckets of water to the edges of the forest, the air heavy with the roar of the flames, and the soot of the fumes, all they could hope for was that their town would be spared and the Kami would protect their homes and their loved ones.

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Tokyo.** Noon**

A tall young man stood in front of a little schoolhouse in the outskirts of Tokyo. His white jacket and dark spiky unruly hair was the terror of Tokyo's teahouses and restaurants. As he waited impatiently for Sasaki the schoolmaster, he looked up at the clear sky and wondered if he would make it to the Kamiya dojo in time for lunch.

Sano leaned back onto the wall, hands crossed in front of his chest, eyes closed, waiting for the sudden ecstatic outburst of children's voices that would erupt from the small building.

A small wind had picked up the stray leaves in front of the porch. The golden, yellow and orange laminas were lazily flicked and rolled about in a semi silent dance. Sano crushed a few underfoot automatically. As the wind kicked up, the fragments took flight, and all of a sudden Sano could see sparks in the air.

He saw Kenshin's body slowly float down to the ground, limp and seemingly lifeless, he knew he was running, he knew he was screaming, he knew he was scared. The dark cloud cleared around the Demon, a sick smile etched upon his cruel charred face. The air in his lungs smelled musty and decayed, a sickening taste had invaded his mouth; an amalgam of bile and liquid fear. He heard a voice calling his name, distant and troubled. A small tug on his sleeve brought Sano back to the sunny day, as he looked into bright brown orbs of a child, a tiny girl, as she was firmly latched to his jacket.

"Yes Sensei." answered the child softly as her teacher urged her to go play with the others.

She gave Sano a slightly perplexed smile, as he continued to stare at her, and ran off. He watched her join her friends at play as they tossed handfuls of leaves into the air. He slowly turned to Sasaki, a smile forced on his face, as he proceeded to tell the teacher why he was there in the first place. With a start Sano realized that he didn't remember!

The teacher had moved to the shoji signaling the end of the day's lesson, as wave upon wave of delighted shouts and shrieks welled in his classroom. As the flood of kids poured out, he realized that someone was waiting outside; it was Sanosuke, his back to the doorway.

But as Sasaki called out his friend's name, there was no response. Nearing, he realized that Sano's fingers were tightly fisted as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, his eyes were wide, wild and desperate. His lips parted in a silent scream.

Before he could stop her one of the children had attached herself to Sano's jacket in an attempt to climb the young man's arm. He shooed her with a small chuckle. But as she moved away his face grew solemn as he looked into Sano's eyes, which were now plainly bewildered by what had just happened, as his face contorted into a very false smile.

Sasaki sat down on the low porch and gestured for Sano to join him.

With a sheepish grin Sano muttered that he had come to inquire about his friends health. He retreated away hurriedly, as the answer was delivered, with a curious and calculating glance from the teacher.

As Sano wandered away, meandering slowly yet surely to the dojo, he wondered what had happened over and over. Glancing down at his bandaged fists, one cracked, both scarred and calloused, he knew that the fight had been won and Shishio put to death. They had saved Japan from the madman and his flames. He had made a difference that day. But why did the memory seem hollow now that time had sobered the joy of survival and triumph?

"What have I done?" wondered aloud Sano, as he walked slowly in a familiar road, that he couldn't seem to follow.

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Sorry for the long wait everyone. Just when I thought I'd be free(not just free-er) for a while, I found myself back in the orderly chaos of a homicidal educational system...don't ask.

I'll try my best to keep at it, so even if updates are slow they will (hopefully) be steady.

On a chapter based note Sano already knows Rou, how? U'll just have to wait to find out won't u, (insrt: **evil cackle)... **

And thanx again for the lovely review.

Bye.


	5. Remembrances, part 1

An apology to all my readers (I do this a lot ne?) I made two big slip-ups. I gave out an untimely spoiler. The "Sano knows Rou" was expressed in a blurry and indistinct way in the first draft of chap-4... but when I made changes to that I forgot to alter the note...so I'm sorry ... the damage is done, but i hope it won't affect the story too badly... errr and theres' more, hehe... This I spotted after posting chapter 2... but the thing has become glaring now, Makoto Shishio... The family name is Shishio, while the first name is Makoto... Sadly i seem to have twisted that, and no matter how many times i blame Samurai-X for the confusing dub, the mistake's been made.. and so for the express purpose of this fic, let Makoto be the family name... "justice" isn't all that good a first name anyway... lol.

This time around the _italics _are used for flashbacks.

Chapter-5: **Remembrances, part 1**

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

For hours now, horse and rider had blazed through the dirt track, a dusty haze in their wake. The dimming rays of the sun, as it descended the skies, bordered by billowy gray blue clouds, did little to faze the one behind Rou. His head buzzing, still unclear.

He had long since eased into the large saddle, drawing comfort from the wind that whipped his hair. He unwound the coiled reins from one of his hands, and reached towards the base of the horse's neck. Rou could feel the power surging through the beast, and was amused as the skin crawled reflexively under his calloused fingers. He stroked the silky black mane, taking childish delight as the strands whipped in and out of his palm. The horse was steadily tiring, but its breath still came strong, strides sure. He loosened the tension in the reins, easing the hunter into a loose canter

The tall trees that bordered the road had grown farther apart. Rou could see a clear stretch of grass in the distance, rolling green in the low wind. The gurgling brook that he had glimpsed between trees a little way away from the road was widening, growing, as the banks were being distanced, further, with every step forward.

With a shock Rou eyed the far off bank, a glint of gold as the last rays of the sun caught onto what Rou knew was the yellow sand of the delta of the river Shitei. The reins had gone slack in his hands as he watched horrified, every tree, every rock suddenly loomed disturbingly familiar. His head swam as the hunter trotted lazily towards outcroppings of a rough stone bridge that untied the road taken and the road left, long ago.

Even the algal collections on the little bridge seemed no different then when he had last seen them. He shot another worried look to the road towards his latest fiery feat. The dusty mist was dissipating as the wind slowly sliced through the cumuli.

Rou, stunned, slowly turned in his saddle, as sweat began to bead his face, which lost color at an unnatural pace. With distant eyes he looked across the little stony span.

He could almost see three boys, making their way towards the bridge, as another rushed helter-skelter towards the wood wrapped pathway a distance away, the younger of the boys fought to keep his stride dignified. Sheer joy emanated from him as the trio clove slowly through the glade, all faces taut with expectation and excitement.

_Rou walked with short sure steps, his face calm, his gaze level, only his fisted hands, shaking, betrayed his elation. Beside him Mitsura had gritted teeth through tight shut lips, his knuckles also white, but his walk as contained, as befitting the warriors they were expected to be, that they already were. _

_The head of the procession reached the bridge, as a brave young face smiled calmly at the three. The sun finally broke through the clouds. And the beams set the gleaming copper coat of the charger ablaze. Ryu, eldest son of Chiharu, led on the warriors, his eyes shining, as he looked once more at home. _

_As the boys drew nearer, they could see the end of the convoy through the trees. Their eyes collectively flickered across the rearmost wagons, draped in rich white cloth, but no sooner had they seen it, it was lost behind a tree trunk, and they looked away before it returned to view. _

_Ryu was almost abreast them now, his face radiant, his hands trembling at the reigns. As the boys reached him, he halted his huge horse and turned it to face the men of Isshiotakebi as they marched into the glade, every face graced with serenity, some scarred, some bandaged, many tear streaked. _

"_Home. We are home!"_

_The words rang out, ethereal, reverberating in everyone's heart, even as the gongs boomed out, and the horses neighed and snuffled. And then, in resonant thunder, the men rode through, past the boys, past the green stretch, past the wooded passage, onwards, onwards, to home._

_Rou swept up his hand, shielding his face as the forerunners sped past, a grin plastered firmly upon his lips, heart-beats in rhythm with hoof-beats._

_Suddenly all he could see was the dust gray flanks of one of the massive beast's. A warrior dismounted, easily twice as broad and a good few heads taller than Rou, and before the smile on Rou's face widened further, before the man had circled his steed in two massive steps, two identical blurs shot past and collided into him, gorilla arms closed in upon Mitsura and Imai. Father and sons, reunited. _

_Rou looked away, as tear's trickled out of the warrior's eyes, now clasped shut, and began walking. The last of the men were passing. The pounding in his chest had grown, nearly unbearable now, a soft buzz, deep within his skull. Running his fingers through his forelocks, eyes wide, searching, but darkened, he watched the last of the carriages cross the bridge. The rattle of the heavy wheels, the singular clicks and scrapes of the horse hooves all muffled suddenly. Things seemed eerie, quiet, and the prickling in his eyes increased tenfold. _

"_Where are you?" he whispered, "Otou-san" he mouthed._

_The first of the carriages came and went past Rou. His head lowered, eyes veiled by messed up bangs, fingers at his temple, moving absently. _What is this, this emptiness?_ His lips trembled, they felt dry, chapped, he moved his tongue across them. _What is this burning, this seething pain? _They trembled still. Eyes shot open, he bit into his lower lip, he would not.. _I cannot.. _cry. _This anger, this pride, this fear, this hatred, this need, this longing.

"_Where are you?" he mouthed,_ "Where are you?" he shouted.

_The second carriage drew abreast. The banner of Ishhsi played loosely in the wind, the sides draped in silk, snowy white, framed with golden tufts. Was his father inside this? A memory? A piece of the village's history? Something of his he had seen, maybe touched, anything? Ashes?_

_Rou looked at the third carriage, the last, further down, and the first a little way ahead, and began walking. It took unbelievable strength to keep his feet straight, strides steady. Hands hung heavy, limp at his sides, stomach weighed, yet disturbingly alive. His eyes and ears had grown acute, almost painfully so, but his mind was elsewhere, distanced._

_The time between each ring of the gong, the silence, seemed stretched. The woods loomed nearer. _

_The sun was dipping away into the far mountain line, a deep red-orange blot amid the darkening clouds. Rou entered the wooded arches amid feverish whispers, the shadows only lengthened. _

_Rou saw her before she saw him, gliding through the twilit path. _Did she know?_ Her steps so sure, her face so calm. She looked ghostly in the dappled light, her powder blue kimono shaded in greens and grays. _

_Her firm gaze met his unsteady eyes. _Was there a momentary flicker in her eyes, a nearly imperceptible twitch near those lips? _She strode up to him and reached for his trembling hands with her steady ones. Grasping his right hand, firmly yet softly, in her left, she ran her long fingers down his cracked and calloused palm. _Was her breathing always this controlled?

"_Come on." She whispered._

_He looked searchingly into her face. _Was she fighting as desperately to hold back her tears?

"_Lets go home." She spoke soothingly._

_Hand in hand, mother and son walked away from the wagons, away from the path that led towards the assembly field where the rest of the village was gathered, away from the cheers and shrill shrieks that floated in the night air. They trod the familiar path, towards their little home. For once the brook at their feet was quiet. They reached the little porch, as light all but disappeared and dark thunderheads crested the sky._

_As she moved soundly onto the kitchen, he trudged back to his little room. Settling his back against the wall Rou seated himself on the floor. He didn't know how he felt then, didn't know sorrow from anger, all he knew was that he felt drained, tired. He tucked in his knees and rested his head against them. Feeling even more sapped he closed his eyes. Drifting off into dark indefinite dreams…_

………

_Rou jerked up, the din, deafening within the wooden walls. Thunder cracked and split the night air, whipping through the silence of his slumber. He looked around the room with bleary eyes, musingly clutching the blanket around his shoulders. _

_Reaching for the wall, he slowly eased up to his feet, absently running his palm against the coarse grain. Another rending booming explosion ripped through the steady drumming of raindrops. _

_Walking through the unlit passageway, Rou moved to the shoji that led to the little porch. A slap of cold wet air met him as he scraped open the heavy screen. Eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. He slowly walked the small length of the porch, enjoying the smooth wetness against his bare soles. _

_A blinding flash. Rou's eyes shot wide open, startled. In the second, he had seen thousands of beads of pure light against the curtains of falling water, he had seen the trees, sudden towers of light and shadow, he had seen the little shrine shine, the holy collection of stones, solid and silvery, he had also seen the stooping little heap at the base of the shrine, dark against the sudden light. _

_The first of the chilly raindrops stung his face and neck, as he strode through the muddy grass, the water sucked and splashed at his toes. The roar and rumble of thunder followed him closely._

_He reached her side. Aya sat kneeling, deep in prayer, her mass of dark hair plastered wetly over her back, her hands planted firmly on the ground, her eyes shut, tight, as yet another twisting, forking, radiant blade branded the gray black sky. He reached forward and touched her shoulder gently, tentatively. _

_Aya craned back her neck, slowly, her hands had shot up to her face. The back of her left palm dabbed furiously against it. Rivulets ran the length of her deathly white face, stained and muddy beneath her eyes. _Did the heaven's rage and scream now because she had not, could not, would not cry before?

_He held her hand, helping her to her feet, feeling her tremble under his grip. All of a sudden, Aya collapsed into her son's shoulders, breaking into throaty sobs, heavy and heaving. Awkwardly, Rou placed his hand on her back, unsure. The monotony of the drumming rain, and the chill that spread through him seemed distant. He stood firm beside her, feeling the rising and falling of her being. _

_The sobs were smoothed gradually, as her steady breath eased through the tears. Slowly she rose from his shoulder, and after an embarrassed glance, eyed the ground. Rou passed his arm around her shoulder, finding her steady, he led their slow way back to the house. _

_Mother and son passed through the dark arches, trailing mud into the usually spotless house. As the shoji slid shut, a soft glow spread slowly across its length. Familiar warmth spread through the house even as the night seethed and stormed outside._

Rou looked around, his charger had advanced through the field. He trudged through the high grass. The sun had dipped a little lower. A familiar scent wafted in the low breeze, leafy, fresh and soft, he walked a little slower, his strained nerves easing as he felt the blades of grass move beneath his geta.

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

A-notes.. Boring flashbacks. Sorry. More coming soon, though may not be quite so boring.

Cya..


	6. Remembrances, part 2

Chapter-5:** Remembrances, part 2.**

Village of Isshiotakebi: 1868. **Dawn.**

The sun rose early, tingeing the dark sky with deep purples, oranges and pinks as the white cloud remnants stood out starkly against it. Before the rays had spread through the leaf-strewn pathways, a file of silent men made their way through it.

The newly washed blades of grass glistened in the soft rays, glassy green and clean. The warriors entered the assembly field, a small following of boys behind them, who hung back in the trees.

The men broke off into groups each taking separate portions of the field.

The majority practiced with bamboo yari, others formed teams of five and fell into kata with their bokken. Some men reached the far end of the field, bordered by trees that grew thicker and closer. Retrieving straw stuffed targets and settling them into mud-stuffed grooves, these men and others that joined them unstrung yumi from their backs and began their archery exercise.

Energized yells drifted through the morning air, the boys watched excited as the newly returned warriors moved in practiced sync, their weapons whipping through the air, arrows whistled far away as each bows sung to roared the war cry—sonno joi.

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

Village of Isshiotakebi: 1879. **Evening**

Rou had reached the trees near the riverbank, the hunter caught and trussed to a firm branch. He realized he had been screaming before, had spoken to the wind and lapsed away from the present while making his way across the bridge. He felt drained again. Rou sat down..

... _on the river's edge, his back to a tree trunk, eyes shaded from the strengthening sun by leafy overhangs. His gaze fixed on the ever-moving stream of water ahead. His bokken lay beside him, framed with thick green blades._

_He snapped out of his reverie as Imai's shrill voice reached his ears. Upon turning, he saw Mitsura striding purposefully through the high grass, Ayasha and an animated Imai trailing behind._

_The boys reached Rou as Imai exploded into yet another rant of how his father had dominated the day's practice. Ayasha would only smile as Mitsura broke into soft laughter. Spotting Rou's blade, he slid his own out of his obi and challenged Rou with a broad grin._

_With a light shake of his head, Rou was on his feet, whisking up his weapon. Letting the bokken swivel in his palm, he stretched his arm then legs. Rou rounded Mitsura and took stance, ignoring the mischievous glint in his friend, now foe's eye._

_The end of his blade blurred, gaze drawn—focus._

_The tips touched, tapping, once, twice and thrice, meeting with contained force in small clicks and scrapes. The fourth time, Rou powered forward his bokken, sliding it along the other's length; with a small step and a bent knee, he almost drove the blade home before Mitsura managed to deter it._

_He drew in his weapon, and using the opening attempted a diagonal cut, straight at Rou's temple. Who turned his bokken with milliseconds to spare, rotating it to bring it up in a block with the blade's flat, the held weapon steady._

_The air crackled with the loud reports. A man in passing stopped. Standing in the shade of the grove, screened by one of the many trees, unwilling to intrude upon the boys' fight._

_Mitsura eased back. And Rou advanced, aiming for his opponent's knee, he slid his weapon through, sweeping it wide. He took a large forward step even as the easily detectable attack was parried. Before the sweep was finished, he reached out his left arm to the ground and bent his knee to its extent._

_As Mitsura attempted to drive off Rou's blade, Rou shot off from the grass and thrust his entire weight onto the strike. Angling his attack along the rise of the smooth edge of Mitsura's blade._

_The sudden pressure drove back the boy who struggled to keep balance. His finger's tingling uncomfortably, sword arm pressed firmly against his chest, painfully extended. For a moment Mitsura buckled while Rou, relentless, attempted to wrench away his weapon, momentum focused onto the point of attack._

_He lost his breath abruptly. Shocked at the sudden impact as he sailed back through the air._

_Rou landed a few feet away, his hand shooting to his chest. He closed shut his mouth, inhaling sharply through his nose. Slowly he raised the bokken, watching._

_Mitsura stood with his left hand extended, palm open, unmoving after having smashed it into Rou's ribs. A broad grin played across his lips._

_Whipping back the blade, Rou started forward with a strained cry. Curling the weapon, slanted, from the left, he let it strike off Mitsura's waiting blade, opening crafted, he brought it back upwards targeting the boy's unguarded face. Contact eminent in a second's fraction, Rou jerked forward, buckling. A jolting pain had shot up his ankle. He had overstepped._

_The millisecond lapse allowed Mitsura to angle back his weapon in a hurried block. They parted as Rou stumbled forward a few paces._

_Rou walked back, putting pressure to his right heel. He couldn't believe he had over-exerted, made as simple a mistake as stepping out of his limit. As he ground his toe into the soft earth, he couldn't help but accept that Mitsura had not only matched him in speed and outmatched him in strength, but had also broken all his attacks_

_Rou eyed the raised weapon, flexing and unflexing his wrist as a trembling hand roved absently through his messy bangs. He took stance. Left foot before right, left arm tucked near the chest, the right extended, bokken held in a loose two-handed grip resting perpendicular to the chest._

**Focus**_—went up the silent chant._

_Mitsura charged, a diagonal slash, Rou sidestepped and brought forward his bokken, blocking the secondary side sweep, inches from his torso. He took care to return his bokken to its position even as the blades parted and met again, Mitsura began to power forward, Rou losing ground, leapt back, just as Mitsura thrust forward his blade. Rou parried it close, letting the advancing blade slide midway along its length, the attack went wide with a flick of his wrist._

_Rou stepped away, and moving in a tight arc stopped behind Mitsura. Who turned—whipping out his bokken. Rou, waiting, parried it before it had gained speed, he stepped away again, egging on Mitsura to attack._

_Mitsura charged again, driving forward his blade in a near vertical swing. It went wide, as Rou anticipated. He locked the tip of the rising blade on its way back with his own, and stepped in._

_Shifting forward his weight, he twisted his body to force a full turn, adding tension to his sword arm even as Mitsura attempted to free his blade with both hands on the handle without losing balance._

_Mitsura's blade shore off upwards and away. His eyes wide as realization set in—too late._

_Rou's bokken had left its anchorage with blinding speed. In a sweeping arc, speeding, accelerating, it smashed into Mitsura's knee, within milliseconds of release._

_He fell, face-first, flailing, Rou brought out his left arm to balance himself, breathing out a sigh._

_An abrupt jolt shook the boy, the contact ringing in his ear. His jaw stung. Mitsura's descending blade had connecting with Rou's face as it had been yanked down. With his fingers still clasped around the weapon, he had just scored a vital hit. He had won._

_Mitsura struggled up to a sitting position, smiling sheepishly at Rou before Imai's sudden shriek hit home. He had won. He had made the hit that counted. He had won against Rou._

_Rou stood stock-still; he had managed a smile for his friend, but not much else. His fingers still played across his cheek. Imai and Ayasha reached them, the former screeching with joy, the latter sporting a wide grin._

_He reached forward with an unsteady hand, clapping Mitsura softly on the shoulder, smile firmly plastered on his face. He avoided their eyes and brushed past the boys, heading towards the river._

_Four pairs of eyes followed him intently, before the boys decided to let it go. The watcher moved slowly from tree to tree, smiling at the memory the boy had dredged up._

_Rou walked faster with each step, absently noting the speed with which the ground ran out from under him. He looked up towards the gray-white cloud mountains and then ahead, the spectrum of colors from a dragonfly's translucent wings catching his eye. His eyes darted down once more._

_The sharp wind was calming in a way. He stopped near the riverbank. Following the embankment as it turned from green to golden-gray with longing sad eyes._

_The wind carried sharp low key it its howl. The day drifted away strangely faster as the sun dimmed._

_"Look here, boy!" He felt strong rough fingers under his chin guiding back his eyes._

_"You have to be like me from now on, Shishirou. Stand tall beside your mother—stand strong. Understood?" Rou nodded his assent, not trusting the stability of his voice. He couldn't blink, he could barely breathe. His thoughts reflected off the next words he heard._

_"There is no place here and in my heart for the weak. Look at her." He wanted to follow the hand that motioned behind him._

_Aya stood there, Rou wanted to turn back, look at her, knowing that she was smiling, aglow with the pride that shone out whenever she saw the two together._

_"When I am back, a hero of this war, she will come stand at my side and tell me that you have been true to my word, like she has been."_

_The man's rough fingers traced their way up to the boy's head, where they ruffled the neatly parted hair._

_Rou shied away the hand, not wanting to accept this childlike treatment. He was turning nine soon, after all._

_Rou jerked away his gaze, eyes wide. His hand reached for his head, feeling an overwhelming rush._

**What will he think of me now? I-I've lost. Does it matter to whom? How? **

**I've lost-- but he, haven't you lost too Tou-san? **

**I'm weak and so is Kaa-san. But you—you've lost too? **

**Where are you? Why aren't you here? Are you the weak one? Where are you?**

_Rou did then, what he often did when overwhelmed and unanswered. He turned on his heels and sped into a run._

_His keen senses registered an approaching aura—a man behind him, rustling in the high grass as he followed— only barely above the receding roar of the water and the rising one in his mind. He considered speeding up further, running away._

_"__Ohayo."_

_Rou was in no mood to converse with villagers, but the voice that cut across had a dignity and command that struck him, even in the simple greeting. The voice was also strangely familiar._

_"Ohayo gozaimasu, Ryu-sama."_

_Ryu smiled, all too familiar with being referred to by his surname._

_"__Ryu-san will do fine". He walked on, past Rou, motioning him to follow, as he made his way to the water's edge._

_Rou eyed the daisho pair at the man's obi. He knew well his manners and did his best to reign down his racing mind. _

_The man settled comfortably into the fuzz at the slight incline after which the soil turned to moist gray sand. The water swirled around his geta, as it receded, only to flow back up moments later. He turned and gestured to the boy to join him._

_"The Ryozo boy—Mitsura-chan right? He fought well today."_

_"Hai," answered Rou, somewhat subdued._

_They sat in silence until Ryu spoke again._

_"You love to fight."_

_Rou nodded his assent._

_"Do you know why we fight—Shishirou?"_

_"Aa, for a better Japan." Rou recited. "For a better tomorrow," he added as an afterthought._

_With a soft chuckle, Ryu loosened the wakizashi from his obi. The polished saya gleamed dark and sleek and beautiful. With his thumb on the tsuba, the blade inched out with a distinct chink._

_"We fight—for the day that, that he and you, that Ryozo and Makoto-san will be no different—equality."_

_"Hai," Rou whispered. But his thoughts were already racing elsewhere._

_The young warrior rose to his feet. The kesso clicked back into the sheath. He dusted off his hakama absently._

_"Ryu-sama—san."_

_"Yes?"_

_"How did—I mean, how did—h-how did he d-die?" Rou stammered out, before he could stop. He steeled himself and looked straight into Ryu's face. He was surprised to see the young man's face tighten, as shadows seemed to line sudden creases along its length._

_"Die?" He breathed in visibly. "Who?"_

_Rou scrambled up from his place at the bank._

_"Otou-san—he—how? Rou cleared his throat and continued. "Please—tell me how he—how he fell."_

_Ryu only stared. Rou met his gaze and held it, forcing steady his voice. The man's next words seemed distant._

_"Your father, Makoto-san—I don't know. I haven't seen him. No I didn't see him fall. I haven't seen him—since the day that the Ikedaya was attacked. You have heard of that raid—haven't you?"_

_Rou nodded, suddenly unable to form words._

_"Hasn't onee-san heard of this?"_

_Rou appeared lost, eyes trailing along the ground, searching, before he realized he was being addressed. He shook his head._

_"Shishirou?"_

_"Hai?" He stopped in his tracks, checking himself from walking away._

_"You are—growing up. Soon, you take to your own."_

_"Yes. In a few months." He looked inquiringly at Ryu, wondering._

_"Have you considered—picking up the old house, the old name?"_

_"No," the automated answer. "I haven't given that any thought," he corrected._

_"Do." _

_Rou nodded again. Ryu's solemn words barely registering above the wordless cacophony in his head.  
_

**Could it be? **

_"I will tell okaa-san."_

_Ryu smiled.  
_

**His answer**

_"Dewa Mata_

_"Dewa."_

_He watched the boy's retreating back as he entered the line of trees. His eyes returned to the river, lost in his own thoughts. _

_Yes, there's no doubt. _

_Rou felt lighter and lighter as he sped through tree to tree. He felt like his mind was floating but clear thoughts had forsaken him. _

_He felt a vague annoyance for life rushing him as he kept repeating __what he had just heard to himself. _

_He was happy, very happy. The dark green blur with its sudden fillets of soft light were numbing._

_The shadows thinned ahead. The tree lined village opened beyond. _

_Unaware of the stares he drew Rou flew past. _

_Before he knew it the trees and the houses and the road itself were whispering to him. He slowed to a halt near the collection of rocks that marked the little rise in the land, the little house rose from the smooth hillock ahead. _

_He dashed away the tears that threatened to trickle over and started slowly towards his home. Chuckling inwardly at himself—confused, unsure. _

_His elation wore thinner as he reached the engawa, face clouded over. Crossing the threshold, he saw his mother stooped over the small pit in the kitchen over the small fire-pit, ladle in hand. Her face turned down to the small pot of rice. His face clouded over, as he walked on wtihout stopping to greet her. _

_Rounding the little bend, Rou opened the sliding panel and sat down. He watched the gigantic clouds racing sluggishly overhead as he tried to sort out this new wave of unsettling thoughts._

**I know he hasn't died.**

**He is alive, he's too strong to leave us—leave us, like this—I know it.**

_His thoughts wandered to the night, nearly three years back, as he'd sat around that large but slowly dying fire, his friend's beside him, gathered around Ayasha's grandfather._

**Each word he spoke was sewn with a bit of his life, another precious breath.**

_Between the deep sighing breaths and the low, slowly unraveling words the man recreated the darkness of the night and the fear. Though he had only known bland facts. He told them of the brave ones who'd stood in the path of the Shinsengumi as they slaughtered the inhabitants of the inn and set fire to the compound, women and children locked within. _

**How did I wait out those coughing fits, willing him on desperately to continue?**

_The boys listened enraptured as he told them that his son had been one of the last few standing, holding the line of retreat along the narrow alleys with his fellow warriors. The incinerated skeleton of the Ikedaya inn behind them._

**He saw it clearly in those red orange flames.**

_The man's voice rose, broke, then fell again. He reached the part where his son was caught between an advancing line and the party that had waited in the very shadows he'd tried to hide in._

_His voice had been a roar seconds ago but he whispered the next few words—" He crossed swords with those demons, he died, so that his comrades could live. He was a brave boy, but a foolish one. I am proud of him."— And then there was silence._

**Ayasha had slipped away from the fire. I knew. But I couldn't get up, not without disrespecting the old one. I wanted to hear what he said to too. I didn't get up.**

**His grin**_**—**teeth bared slightly between the twisted lined contours of his face, loose skin and an unsteady lower lip**—**_**those wild****eyes, the fire in his voice, it was infectious. It was also waning. The fire in front of us died out too.**

**How long had I been angry with them? Those that returned to the village. Helpless and angry. **

**They had returned, then, to "lay low" till the fires were re-kindled in Kyoto and the rallying calls rang through the land once more.**

_Rou felt a soft touch along his shoulder and looked up and into Aya's face._

_"Lunch. Its ready. Lets go."_

_Rou got to his feet and followed her into the dimly lit house. His mind none the clearer as he fenced with his thoughts._

_The day wore on as he moved mechanically from chore to shore. But he couldn't settle his mind into either the broad sweeps of the broom or the delicate strokes of the brush. He noticed his mother watching him from time to time, her face straight—calmed, bleached of emotions._

_The clouds grew denser._

_The first few drops littered the engawa as the two sat down with their tea. He closed the shoji._

_There was a muffled silence._

_It was night, the rain had eased away hours ago. But the moon was encased in deep, brooding clouds._

_He twisted in his bed, sleep the farthest thing from his thoughts._

**I can do this.**

_His mind was still a whirlwind. But now that he had settled on a course of action it was only a matter of time before he calmed himself. He took a deep breath and eased out of the coverings. With the look of determination that preceded a fight, he went about the little room, gathering this and that in near silence, till a small pile of clothing, a pouch of money and a few things he was ready to get rid of at need, were collected upon his futon._

_Minutes later he entered the small chamber that housed his father's armor and the family's blades. The walls were adorned with name scrolls, the pedestal held a wide unlighted white candle surrounded by many smaller ones. He touched the metallic folds of the black plate reverently before moving to the rack of practice blades._

_On his way back, he lingered in front of his parents' room. The moment passed._

_Back in his room, Rou secured the futon firmly, using one of the bokkens as a holder. The length of cord slithered into knots, the action was repeated several times, till the pack was a compact bundle and hung easily off of its wooden handle._

_With a wistful smile he walked the familiar path in near complete darkness. Aware of all the little sounds that the trees and the water and the night creatures awake or sleeping made he could only smile._

_He reached the little stony bridge at a brisk pace. Not far ahead stood the outpost, the little cabin and the tiny makeshift stable._

_He was done bidding goodbyes—not a single tear spent. He'd be back after all, back very soon, back with him._

**I have to take a horse—**_he chuckled_—**steal it. But they'll understand. When I'm back, I will pay them for it. It's not like I'm taking Kensuke's wild one.**

_The path ahead was clear in Rou's mind as he stashed away his baggage in the bush and entered the stalls. Put together between tree trunks, where a large cloth had been secured to keep away the moisture. The horses where tied, with a lot of give, and allowed to move in their roughly separated stalls. The "stable" was safely hidden from the bamboo tower's line of sight._

_The horse would be both his means of getting to the big city and his main source of money once he got there. He hoped he had enough nothings with him to barter for food and lodgings if it came to that._

**Who knows how long it'll take to scour Kyoto.**

_He took care not to spook the gray-white pony as it stood sleeping in the dark. Its eyes widened under his touch as it whinnied lowly at being handled at that hour._

_He was out of the trees after a couple of minutes of fumbling in the dark, the horse furnished as well as Rou could manage by himself. He loaded the pack onto the beast. And led it slowly, soundlessly away. Reaching the dirt path.._

..he mounted commandingly. Determined to get as far away from these memories as his horse could manage to take him.

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

Japanese Terms:

yari: Short staff, three-four feet in length. A flexible weapon.

yumi: Japanese longbow. This was already growing into an antique weapon at the time.

bokken: Wooden sword, used for practice.

sonno joi: "Revere the emperor. Expel the barbarian." This was the rallying call of the

Meiji Restoration which sought to "restore" the emperor to his former position(among other things) . Coincidentally the first time someone told me about sonno joi all I could think of was "martial victory" because that's what this stands for(provided a thick enough accent) in my native tongue.

obi: Cloth sash used as a belt of sorts.

shoji: Sliding doors.  
ohayo: "Good Morning," a common greeting. The gozaimasu is an added politeness.

-sama: Honorific attached to people of great social stature(and gods for that matter).. a

formal term

-san: Honrific equivalent of "mister", "miss", etc..

-chan: Honorific and diminutive.

daisho pair: The pair of swords worn by samurai, a distinction of their social rank.

geta: Wooden sandals.

hai: Yes.

aa: Another affirmative

wakizashi: Short sword.

saya: The sheath

tsuba: The metal guard separating the blade from the handle(The sakabatou has a

circular tsuba, Hiko's sword has none)

kesso: The body of the sword.

hakama: Loose pants.

otou-san: Father, tou-san in informal speech

onee-san: Sister, usually an elder sister.

okaa-san: Mother, kaa-san.

futon: Traditional Japanese bed.

dewa mata: Good day, used in good-byes.

.. A little long and much of it may be unnecessary..

A/N: First; the chapter may feel very forced since it had to be redone, almost from scratch. Much has changed from the first version, but I kinda like this too.

Second; I'd like to stress that the description of the raid on the Ikedaya, being a "camp-fire story" is not necessarily accurate.

Third; I know the dialogue stinks. I've always had a hard time with them.

A HUGE thanks to **Nekotsuki, sueb262 **and** SiriusFan13** samas for the beta efforts. If it hadn't been for the little pockets of text saved thanks to them I may just have **considered** throwing in the towel for over a second.

Finally I know how long overdue this update is, but it was unavoidable, I apologize anyway. Just my luck to have both my pc and my laptop crash within 24 hrs hard disk et all.


	7. In The Rain

Kyoto:1864. **Evening **

The katana speared his throat, hot red fissures jetted out as the blade was jerked forcibly away. An instant later, a hand smashed onto the man's bloodied chin—a sickening _crunch_. He was flung back a few paces and landed on the hard stone with a soft _flump_. His head jerked far back, rolling unevenly till it came to a stop against his shoulder.

Takachi stared, bemused, unable to blink. His thoughts were voiced in a dull whisper next to him.

"Monster! What demon is this?" rasped out Tomo.

Miyabi could only answer with his eyes. Their fifth companion had fled, preferring the wolves of Mibu as his hunter to this blood soaked demon as his protector.

Makoto stood in the middle of the narrow street. He closed his eyes against the blood trickling in—none of it his. He slashed at the air, the most stylistic swipe he had taken that night. And looking back, beckoned the remaining men to follow.

They reached the fork and took the turn that led deeper into lightless Kyoto.

The walls were coated in thick dollops of blood, trailing down. Nine men lay dead along the lane—the ambush turned massacre.

The young man had moved through the ranks of Shinsengumi with seeming ease. He seemed to know every step, every move his opponent made a second before they did it. With a simple progression of skill, superior speed and a strength that belied his lean figure he plunged in and out of his targets.

His form comprised of steps of basic kata, the wide flourishes abandoned—swift cuts and low swept blocks that flowed deceptively close to his own body before being shorn away.

Kenjutsu had been stripped of the "art" and was the essential "killing" only. It was far from flowing, but fascinating, hypnotic.

The sword was a part of his self in the half-light. The shadows served him well.

Less than an hour ago a man had stumbled into the Ikedaya inn. His face blanched. His only words as he downed a pitcher were, "they're coming!"

There was no doubt as to who—Shinsengumi.

In the flurry of many men standing at attention, chairs scraping, curses loosened freely and sword's chinking in their sheaths it was understood that at least five "units" of Kyoto's infamous police had been sighted a few streets away.

In the absence of Katsura Kogoro, who had, as if by the hand of fate, been delayed at an important meeting, Takachi Hitana was looked upon for the ordering of the belated escape.

The little garden in the back of the compound was abuzz with Choushu prominents. They fled in ones and twos, those with their own guard giving precedence, by order, to those without. There were two loose destinations, Gion at the heart of Kyoto and the canals at her feet.

In minutes there was silence there once more. And the koi drifted ghostly in the near clear waters by the lily pads, not a ripple in the little pond. The stooping back door that led onto the unlit alley flapped loosely in the slow wind, creaking—as if hungry for more.

The shoji to the garden slid open one more time. A graying head, stooped low, fingers at the temple, appeared at the engawa. Followed by another taller, younger man.

Takachi turned his sharp eyes to the man behind.

"Miyabi, are we ready?"

"All set, Takachi-sama."

"Go on boy. The men here, the serving girls, they're all in their places?"

"Hai. Me and Tomo are ready too, sir!"

"And Katsura's boy— the battousai?"

"No sign of him, sir."

Takachi nodded.

"Tell him, Tomo, to hurry along. It can't possibly take this long to deliver the simple order! All he has to say is scatter, run an—" his words were cut short by a chilling shriek that rent through the night—it came from the alleys.

"Damn the Shinsengumi! Ambush! Go!"

With a swift bow Miyabi raced off down the hall.

Takachi turned stonily to the two men he'd spotted under the shade of the engawa. Both carried two blades on their obi and bowed on being sighted.

**Stiff-necks. Still so proud, eh?**

"They will be upon us soon men."

The man farther down the porch nodded as he neared. His face was pale and matted. At complete odds with the composed young man standing a few paces off the sliding doors, Takachi noted.

**Looks like you've enjoyed yourself boy, watching all those cowards run.**

His eyes wandered back to the little gate again as he willed on the two members of his personal guard to hurry.

**These twisted filthy streets are no different today then they were when I first came to Kyoto. I know them well enough to avoid a few of those bloody dogs.**

"Men, it is necessary for me to reach the canals. I want you," he gestured towards the two "to accompany me and the samurai of my household."

**The paths are narrow and a few added hands could buy me just enough time. **

"Are you willing?"

Thundering steps were heard down the hallway. Tomo arrived first, bowing curtly, his high ponytail whisking behind him.

"They are coming along too."

Tomo glaced back as Miyagi skid to a halt beside him.

"Takachi-sama, that one, the tall one, he's one o' the wild boys" he huffed out. Quelling immediately under his superior's glare, "I mean, one of Ryu's crew, only here for further instructions for their party" muttered out Tomo.

**Oh, that completely slipped my mind, more money for their lodgings**—Takachi snorted inwardly.

He looked over the man who stepped out of the shadows, his long mane catching the moon as piercing eyes stared directly at his. Takachi fished for a name.

"Ma—makoto-san, would you help me across to the canals. It would be a simple matter to return to your inn once we have reached there."

The man seemed to take in the sweat beading Takachi's face and the way his eye's flickered back and fourth to the exit.

He bowed low.

"I will. My life forfeit." He intoned silkily.

The group of five set off, barring the doorway from the outside. The alley stretched ahead, swallowing them into the night.

Moments later a loud knock sounded on the main entrance.

"We are Shinengumi! Open these doors!"

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

Kyoto: 1879. **Noon**

The pile of rags, greasy skin, and bones stirred around noon.

"Kuso! Even you're against me!"

The drunkard tottered to his feet, muttering colorfully while his hand shot up to his face—arm shielding his eyes. Though the sky above was overcast and the sun was nowhere to be seen.

His eyes clouded over as he reached for his forehead, another torrent of swear words escaped him. He clutched at the wooden beam he'd lain against for support.

Pulling at the sodden sleeve of his shirt, he wrinkled his nose at the smell of spilt sake. And turned on his feet abruptly, kicking the bottle—which he had, even a few minutes ago, cradled like a child—clear across the street. It shattered on contact with the ground.

The people in the street went on their ways a little faster.

The man stumbled over to the adjoining alley, dragging his feet, and began to whistle loudly to the unmistakable trickle of liquid streaming over stone.

He returned soon after, visibly satisfied. The few people remaining on the street studiously avoided looking at him as they hurried away.

He settled back into his spot on the engawa of the teahouse and went very still. His drooping mud-colored bangs screening his eyes.

The shoji behind him slid open a crack and then snapped back shut. The serving woman inside had pinched her nose in pure disgust, but was unwilling to shoo away the unwelcome guest.

Many people passed by the street on their way towards the bazaar, but the drunkard seldom moved, seeming to consider it too much trouble to extend his arm—for alms, to just anyone. He would stir to the rustle of an expensive kimono or a western style trench coat or suit but without luck.

The day wore on and the clouds converged in the near sky—grumbling away.

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

Chou padded back to his room. A cackling Saiatsuchi had informed him that his "quarters" were "at the head of the household." The fourth floor was accessible only by one staircase and the cop stood beneath it now.

He'd noted every niche, every corner on his way there. Men entered and exited doors on both sides of the hall at random. Their everyday attire at odds with their muscled physique and the many scarred faces.

The three men that crossed him on their way down confirmed his guess. The muttered "rat" was inevitability.

He climbed the last flight of steps. Few sounds were to be heard here. Walking down the hall he passed by his room.

Dim light streamed onto the walls at the end of the passage. He reached it. The turn in the building overlooked a veranda of sorts, bordered by a wooden rail.

A large courtyard was visible below, hemmed on all but one of its sides by the wings of the building. Men lazed around, stretched in the engawa, or loitering the open stretch of paved ground. Serving girls wound in and out, pitchers and deep mugs in hand. A high brick wall rose farther ahead.

A break, while the master is away, Chou realized. And the sickening thought struck him again.

Shishio—the monster, he's been burned alive once before, if it didn't stopped him then—

These men had to be the stragglers from the madman's army, he surmised. But they would hardly return at Saitsuchi or Iwanbou's call. He vaguely wondered how the "melon-head" had slipped away from his new post. This also disturbed him.

"The power hungry bastard would hardly return to a ghost" Chou muttered.

Could he really be back?

Shoving away the thoughts, Chou surveyed the compound. Grinning as he assured himself that the roof slats were old-fashioned, as was the brickwork—perfect for scaling.

The clouds lurched overhead, rumbling menacingly. His grin reached the lengths of his face as he cocked shut an eye and drew his imaginary escape route.

He swaggered back to his room, the missing swords his only care.

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

Tokyo:1879. **Afternoon**

"Sir! Please! Back to your seat. Now! Someone will be with you in a second. But notti—" that was all Tae could manage before she broke off into yet another coughing fit.

Misao burst out of the kitchen that very moment and spotting her temporary boss, tsk tsked her way to the head of the restaurant, the laden tray on her hand forgotten. She handed it to one of the men who were about to return to shouting for proper service and began to pat Tae's back enthusiastically.

The coughs subsided soon after and the "patrons," as Tae put it, were shown to a table and promised "the fastest, most yummy food they had ever had" by the very cheery waitress.

Misao returned to the kitchen, humming to herself. She retrieved the large wooden ladle and began stirring the contents of the cauldron on the counter. She shot the boy beside the open oven, easing out the temperature, a teasing glare.

"Sometime today!" Misao yelled. She turned fully and looked at him when he didn't respond.

"I'm worried about her."

"What's that, Yahiko-chan?"

Grunting, the boy unloaded a heavy pot from the large fire pit, both the girls who were looking his way with vague concern couldn't help but smile.

"Well, weasel, Tae's been like this for over a week now. Hey! Ever since she let you come here to annoy me. That must be it, you made her sick, o' mighty Okashira."

Misao glowered at Yahiko—her finger's itched for the kunai that rested in the back room with her oniwabanshu garb—she crossed her arms, turning away.

"That is—uh, not—Tae-san has been this way for a while now, I think it's just gotten a li-little worse." Tsubame piped out before returning hurriedly to the unsteady tower of dishes piling in the washbasin.

Yahiko spared an exasperated sigh at the girl's shyness before he turned to Misao.

"We should do something about it, ne?"

"I can cure her, just you wait! I know the perfect remedy for wheezes. I had to take care of Okina, remember."

"Uh, Misao-san, I don't th-think Tae-san is wheezing." Tsubame ducked out of view once more, before Yahiko added.

"Yeah, what she needs is a doctor. And now!"

Misao shrugged, then nodded, returning to work. The curtain to the kitchen opened as Tae stomped in, the beginnings of a scowl painted on her usually smiling face.

"What is with you all today? We have hungry customers lined up and you keep gossiping away back here. Misao! I thought you knew how a restaurant was supposed to be run. You can all take a break once the lunch rush is over. Okay? Now hurry!"

Tsubame had shrunken from sight, but Yahiko and Misao advanced on their employer, flanking her.

"I'll be right back kid!"

Misao brushed past Tae—as Yahiko resisted sticking out his tongue at her—running into the restaurant. She was back in a moment, ticking off figures on her fingers.

"Two more orders to go and another three waiting. I told them all that there's a special on the meaty hotpot." She grinned broadly, teasingly, at Yahiko.

"Right, I'm sure you two can handle that much. Right Tsubame? I'll flip the closed sign over on my way out. Come on Tae, we're going to the Oguni!"

Tae looked around flustered at Misao and Yahiko rushing around. The boy was tugging at her sleeve while he shrugged off his apron.

Tae was confused. And there were people out there waiting to eat her food. She had had enough!

"What the heck! What are you up to, you two? I don't need a doctor. I'm fine see _kheck_—Misao, Yah-hi_keh_—" and she bent over, hacking coughs shaking her small frame.

Yahiko and Misao exchanged knowing grins.

"Come along Tae. Its time for a little trip to Megumi's."

"Yeah, clinic's not far."

Tae could hold back the questions only as long as it took her to regain her breath.

**I am feeling a little light. Maybe—**

She stopped herself from yelling any further, it tired her out she realized. Yahiko had tossed open the back door and was dragging her out. Misao ushering her from behind. Tsubame hovered at her shoulder, patting it, unsure and worried.

"We will take care of the place for you Tae-san" she uttered softly but clearly.

Tae expelled a sigh, giving in.

The two made their slow way down the street.

Misao ran through the drapes a couple of times, singing loudly all the while, before all the remaining customers had been served.

Tricks she had picked growing up in a restaurant had come in handy.

The girls came to the front counter to bid the last of the stragglers—**patrons—**good bye.

As the door clanked shut Misao clapped together her hands happily.

"Well Tsubame-chan, just you and me!"

The smaller girl chuckled nervously as the two retreated to the kitchen, gathering plates and cutlery on their way there.

Sano had finally reached the street that led to the Kamiya dojo. Suddenly, he had second thought about scrounging off a late lunch there. Kaoru's formidable cooking, made worse cold would have made any man stop in his tracks.

Sano however reasoned that it would be unfair to the two, perhaps even the runt, Yahiko, to turn away from the door—which he stood facing now, scratching his head—which to his puzzlement was latched up, locked.

"Perfect!" Spat out Sano.

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

Kyoto: 1879. **Afternoon**

"Got some coins to spare—_kheck kek—_young man?"

The tall man stepped up onto the engawa. The umbrella in his hand collapsed with a sigh, a trail of droplets followed the incline, dripping off in a ribbon.

He spared the beggar a brief glance. And another longer, cooler, warning look as he took off his shoes at the doorway.

He stepped into the teahouse, his trench coat, grayed and sodden with rainwater, rustling as he moved.

The shoji opened onto a dimly lit passage. Booths on both end separated by bamboo slats and white rice paper screens. There were scenes of forests and oceans, dragons and oni and many Kami painted onto the dividers.

"Aah, welcome, welcome master! Allow me, please." The serving woman had, in checking up on the counter caught sight of her first customer of the day. She walked up to him and reached for the wet cloth—and stopped abruptly, as she met his gaze. She stood stilled for another second before—

"Real slow day we are having here," she paused, smiling "as my great aunt would say, no sun and no—." Her stab at conversation was curbed once more by the cool indifference in his gaze.

"What would you like sir?" She inquired stiffly.

"A drink. Something warm." He answered, the words slow and methodic.

"Aah, something to soothe the chills while we wait for this to dry. Some of the new stuff perhaps, or—?"

"Some tea please."

Her face fell slightly at his order. She smiled back at him anyway, and moved to the booth nearest them, sliding open the door she gestured inwards and waited. When he was seated against the table she departed with a little bow.

Aoshi sat against the wall, eyes closed, hands laid flat at his sides. He seemed to be following the sheet of rain marching steadily above him.

His ears pricked at a sudden slight irregularity, a metallic _krick-krick-krick _amid the heavy drumming.

"Talk" he intoned, almost as a part of the next breath he let out.

"Your network runs strong, I see" returned the rain. "You got here fast."

"Aa, you had to trip all five watchers in the area. The network doesn't seem quite as strong as it used to be."

"This era breeds laziness."

"Ill-effect of peace."

"Feh, peace!"

"Talk!" Repeated Aoshi, a decibel louder, the meeting could not be drawn much longer.

"There are things that"—the raspy wind dallied, seemingly unsure, for a moment—"there has been a break in my ranks, it would seem. One specifically known for treason."

"Aa, the swordhunter. Am I right in assuming that he isn't the only Juppongatana on the move?"

"Indeed. The fat one's been spotted around the city, yes?"

Aoshi simply nodded.

"Well Saitsuchi slipped his post about a week ago, but his tongue has been dulling for a while. So the lazy bastards didn't see fit to sift the back-alleys for their verbal blade just yet." The voice continued smoothly. "His apprentice, the giant, returned from his assignment from Hokkaido earlier this month and was engaged in another smaller forest clearing operation."

"Hmm—" Returned Aoshi.

The shoji parted, the slightest bit faster than normal and Aoshi stopped himself from turning his eyes towards the young woman. Crouched down against the sill, she sat with the ornate tray on the ground, telling herself that she had not heard the man talking to himself.

She pushed the tray forward and while reaching for the cup caught the white of parchment in the tall mans hand.

**Aah! a poet. He sure looks like one. No wonder he's so quiet.**

She beamed at him the next second and concluded pouring and serving as fast as etiquette allowed. She didn't want to remain there and disturb him, and made a show of it.

In a few minutes she was out of the booth, a satisfied smile on her face as she felt the shoji _click_ shut. She sent the main doorway a scowl before returning to her haunt at the front counter.

"Amusing." Came the sarcastic drawl.

"Hmm, as I was saying, there is news." Returned Aoshi, drawing forward the saucer.

"News?" The voice was deeper, graver.

"Yes, another fire."

"Aa."

"A huge one, still growing."

"An estate? Must be far from the city."

"Yes, far. Aoi-Jinja, nearly all of the west by now. It started near Setcu and spread. "

"Setcu? Well—that's where Fuji was brought up to for the week." The voiced remained perfectly even.

"Hmm." The pause was long and marked with barely audible sips. "The giant would be the last to return to that alliance." An even answer was whispered back.

"I agree, and even if he is loyal to the uprising, they would hardly call him away in a rush. Fire or not, Fuji would be very hard to whisk away. Unless—"

"No, I doubt they are that desperate."

"Aa. But Chou, my partner, would have a far easier time slipping away. Except, I can't see much of a welcome for him back at Shishio's camp."

"Agreed. He would be a fool to go back."

"Fool that he is, I doubt he has crawled back. The ahou isn't much of a swordsman but he has a brain ticking away slowly up there."

"Which brings us to the how. He may not have been the best but it would take someone skilled, a team perhaps, to make him disappear like this. And the why."

"Perhaps it would be worth taking a look at Setcu—"

"But assuming that fire was staged by the same party you'd be wasting a day and half."

"Exactly. And there is one other thing."

"Oh? He's been spotted?"

"Yes, he has, the Tenken. He's resurfaced."

"I see. Osaka?"

"No, Tokyo."

"Tokyo—" Aoshi paused to return to the last of his tea. "And you are leaving for Sectu when?"

"Soon, but sadly not soon enough."

"I doubt there is very much to follow up on."

"While the city is easier to scour—"

"The forest has many eyes, and just as many ears, I know." Aoshi finished the sentence for him. Rising to his feet and retrieving his coat in a single graceful motion. He turned to the shoji. "That woman will probably want you gone now."

"And you will be her hero?" The sarcasm was back, louder and scratchier. The rain had eased and the winds seemed to whistle and howl in the dark skies speeding the spray.

Without an answer Aoshi drew open the door and stood facing the counter. The woman dutifully produced a little slip of paper, the new tradition, and waited, smiling.

The small sum paid, he moved towards the door to avoid the queries about the quality of the drink and the warnings, to dry up and to avoid the rain, that he could see lining her smile.

As the serving woman reached the engawa, moments later, hoping to catch a last glimpse of her "poet" she could see no sign of him. But to her relief, the beggar was gone too.

She decided to close for the day, trusting the rain to continue through the night.

A tall figure in a pale coat arrowed the wispy water-curtains, rushing through the empty streets of Kyoto.

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

**Evening**

Chou sat cross legged in front of the shoji. The unnatural glow upon it faded in an instant as the thunder took reign from the lightning. His grip on the metal candle stand tightened as he reached for the screen door.

Chou whipped open the door just as the thunder roared out its last scratchy chord. And was blasted in the face, and then there was darkness as the shoji slammed shut once more.

A strange smile was etched on the cop's face. No fear, only excitement. He breathed in deep. He loved the scent of the wick as it cooled and calmed and blackened, but still held onto its inner fire. The wind had been strong and wet and cold. He loved that too. He'd have fun tonight, Chou decided, and he'd get out of the madhouse too.

He was on his feet once more, tossing open the shoji and strutting out into the storm tossed halls.

X-----------------------------------------------------------------------X

This has been sitting in the shelves mostly done for months now. Thanks for hanging around guys. And a few changes to the timing and to place details. I'll edit the earlier chapters soon as I can.


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